


Case Closed (All We Have Is Time)

by XV13



Category: CSI, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apprehending Suspects, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Evidence Gathering and Analysis, F/M, Greg Sanders Character Analysis, Greg Sanders angst, Greg and Morgan share an office, Lab Accidents, Mentions of Therapy, Morgan Brody angst, Personal Growth, Sinatra references, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, minor character injuries, references made for episodes 2x18 and 3x22 and 4x12 and 6x13 and 7x04 and 9x01 and 13x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XV13/pseuds/XV13
Summary: As she goes - Greg catches her perfume, but refuses to heed Nick’s warning… for a person so guarded, he’s thinking that he may not mind risking everything this time around.[Slow-burn Morganders fanfiction, and a Greg Sanders character analysis. A fanfic with plenty of angst/humor/and romance].
Relationships: Morgan Brody/Greg Sanders
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	Case Closed (All We Have Is Time)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. This story is from Greg's perspective, written in Third-Person Limited. There are a number of small and large references made throughout this fic, and thus I will issue a spoiler warning for the following episodes: 2x18, 3x22, 4x12, 6x13, 7x04, 9x01, 13x04. This tale is split into labeled ‘parts’, but uploaded as one chapter. Each part varies in length and theme. Ultimately, this is a slow-burn Morganders fanfiction, but this is also a Greg-centric character piece. I'd love to hear some feedback from the readers, as this is my first time working with these characters. All comments and criticism are encouraged. Enjoy!

**PART ONE – ENCHANTED BEGINNINGS AND USELESS WARNINGS**

After his attempts at courting Sara, his one-night stand with Alison, and his short yet disastrous failure of a relationship with Ellen - Greg is weary, even protective over who he lets the organ in his chest beat passionately for. Even in a place as wild as Sin City, Greg no longer feels ready to reveal his hand so quickly. He prefers to hold his cards close, his emotions conditioned to not be so careless the next time he chooses to gamble with his heart.

They've got this case. It is tying the entire team in knots already, as the sheer amount of eyewitnesses and victims on this murder train are creating a blurred narrative of events. There doesn't seem to be a clear picture available to the investigators, and one account even places an octopus on the locomotive. He snaps the case file shut as he begins his trek across the lab, sparing a glance down the hallway when he hears Nick's voice.

The degree to which he halts his movements could have left black sole marks on the floor. Greg is captivated by the sight of someone unfamiliar. A blonde woman stands tall, talking animatedly with Nick. There's an aura of familiarity between them, but Greg can't identify her as someone he's previously met. This wasn't to say that Greg was familiar with all of Nick's friends, but he'd like to think that he's familiar with most. Deciding to hang back, Greg watches the pair converse for a moment.

She's wearing a grey blazer, and it looks a size too large for her frame. It's almost endearing. Her hands are clutching a brown bag, her tight grip the only sign belaying her nervousness. She stands straight and tall, and immediately Greg is stuck by the confidence and poise she is radiating.

Whoever she is – there is no denying that in every possible way - she is the definition of a beautiful stranger.

Nick turns to look down the hallway and spots him staring. "…all the action is at the Strip, not around here- Greg! C'mere. I want you to meet somebody."

Remembering to pick his jaw up off the floor, Greg resolves that an introduction would be more than allowed. There is a spring in his step as he makes his way over, happy to meet Nick's acquaintance. Her eyebrows raise curiously as she takes in the sight of him.

"Morgan Brody, this is Greg Sanders. Greg was our LA expert on the Haskell case," Nick explains.

An understanding immediately crosses Morgan's features. "Oh right," she remarks with genuine recollection, extending her hand outwards. "Great work, it's nice to put a face with the name."

Greg shakes her hand firmly, noticing the clear coat of polish on her fingertips. He realizes that he too has heard her name in passing during the Haskell incident. Nick had articulated to him how a CSI from Los Angeles didn't have to help them out, but went out of her way to do so anyway. If he is correct in his placement of her identity, that also means the woman before him is Ecklie's daughter.

"You don't look like a history nerd," she continues, oblivious to Greg's racing thoughts.

The comment catches him off his guard, he swipes clammy hands on his jeans with a downward motion. "Neither do you."

She looks unsure about his choice of words, looking at the floor instead of him. The loss of eye contact makes him feel nervous that he may have offended her in some fashion. He backtracks, tripping over his words along the way. "I mean the nerd part… not that you are a nerd… or… that there's anything wrong with being a nerd."

The look on her face is no longer unsure, but bemused. Greg slides a quick glance over to Nick, a silent plea for help and assurance, but Morgan seems to have a better grasp on the conversation out of the three of them.

"Right," she says, breathing the word out forcefully while maintaining her smile. She scrunches her nose and gives her head a small shake. "I'll catch you guys later."

She brushes past, utilizing the space between Nick and Greg. As she goes - Greg catches her perfume, but refuses to heed Nick's warning. His colleague's words fall on deaf ears as he turns to watch her leave, having been left mesmerized in her wake. His ears instead choose to hang onto every footfall she makes until she is truly out of his sight.

For a person so guarded, Greg's thinking he might not mind risking everything this time around.

* * *

**PART TWO – SHARED OFFICES AND REJECTED PROPOSALS**

They share an office now. Traces of her are everywhere, proving Morgan's presence lingers and occupies places other than just his thoughts.

He's got a trained eye for it, and he can't seem to convince himself to stop searching out clues. There's the casefile with her handwriting littering the cover; her fingerprints on a pen that seems to have migrated onto his own desk; a stray blonde hair – almost impercievable to the naked eye – laying at rest among the blue carpeting that stretches across the space between their desks.

Greg rakes a hand over his face, breaking the daze. If he doesn't force himself to focus, he will never get any work done. He returns to shuffling the papers around his desk for the dozenth time in an attempt to make some sense out of them. It's fruitful thinking to assume this action will give him the answers he's searching for, but each of the cases he's on are waiting on evidence analysis or rut into a dead end. Greg's also got enough cases on the go to muddy his thinking, the details of each are slipping out of his working memory.

The door creaks open, an ugly sound in an otherwise soundless room. The crack of exposure allows the noises of the busy building to creep in, disrupting his thoughts once more.

He looks up and watches her enter, watches the way Morgan slowly closes the door behind her to prevent any unnecessary slamming. The task only requires one hand, which is optimal as her other has a tray of precariously balanced baked goods.

Her grin is mischievous, and beams so brightly that it seems to illuminate every corner of their little office. "These got delivered to the break room, I didn't want you to miss out – at the rate Hodges and Henry are devouring them, they certainly won't last long."

The air leaves his nose harshly as he reflects on how true a statement that is. He motions courteously towards the empty seat in front of his desk. Morgan quickly trots over, depositing herself in the chair excitedly while placing the plate between them.

She's made a wide selection, an array of sweet and sour treats that he knows are from the mom-and-pops bakery located three blocks over. It wasn't very often the lab actually brought in treats like these, their budget was strained as it was. Everyone knew this place was Greg's personal favorite, and he was thrilled at the chance to devour the goods in front of him.

"These cookies are particularly delicious, you should try one," he suggests to her. Morgan takes the suggestion, grabbing one appreciatively.

Excess flour flakes off the cooked dough and attaches itself on her bottom lip as she chews. It appears to cling onto the gloss that has remained unscathed from the last application. She makes an odd yet worthy noise, and sends a nod of approval in his direction at the selection. "This is delightful, Greg. I can see why they are your favorite."

He decides to jibe. "Is it really so hard to believe I am a man with taste?"

"I mean, you did eat those questionable leftovers in the staff fridge last month, so forgive my reluctance."

Greg chuckles softly. "Fair point."

When the quantity of sweets on their shared tray has dwindled, they both sit back and allow themselves a moment of reprieve from their work. He figures they can blame it on indigestion if anyone catches them. These periods of silence with anyone else might seem uncomfortable, but after sharing an office with Morgan, he's come to appreciate these moments the most. Nothing often needs to be said when two people already operate on the same wavelength.

She sits up abruptly from where she's been slouching, crossing her hands in her lap. Her brow is furrowed like it often is when she fixates on something. "Greg, can I ask you something?

The unease he was just thinking didn't exist between them suddenly creeps in. Morgan and him didn't exactly engage in much small talk, so whatever this is had to be serious. He signals for her to go-ahead.

"I don't mean to be pushy, and you can say no… but I was wondering if you might want to grab coffee sometime?"

It wasn't an unreasonable request. "If you want some of my Blue Hawaiian, you need not ask. Help yourself, the break room shouldn't be too busy right now-"

"-Greg," she interrupts, stressing each syllable. "I meant… outside of work."

Greg hummed under his breath. "I mean we've already established the place around the corner is pretty good, and the guys seem to like it too so we should ask-"

"-Greg!" Morgan shakes her head exasperatedly, but there is still a smile on her face. "I meant the two of us… alone," she snickers and throws up a single finger to halt his next sentence. "And before you can ask… I meant as possibly more than friends."

Greg's mouth falls open, speechless.

There's a million thoughts running through his mind. At first, he's ecstatic at the prospect Morgan might hold the same interest in him as he does for her. He's also surprised at her boldness. It takes courage to be the first to ask for what you want.

Then the doubt creeps in, because this lab has already bared witness to what happens when CSI's become entangled with one another. Not to mention the outstanding fact that her father is the Sheriff, the head boss at the chain of command Greg and Morgan fall within.

There's many forces at play beyond just the long hours of their work that are telling him this might be a bad idea. Truthfully, he wants nothing more than to say screw it, because there is something about Morgan that suggests he may have finally found the right person. The feeling isn't enough to outweigh the voice of reason taking precedence, the voice insisting the timing for them is all wrong.

Thus, he is conflicted. He wants to say 'yes'. He knows for a fact they could be great, but he never claimed to be a fearless soul. He knows if he allows himself to hope right now, allows himself to hold her – only to be forced by extenuating circumstances to give her up… well, he doesn't see himself standing a chance at recovery from another shattered heart.

Morgan's been waiting for an answer, watching his face closely for any indication, any signs pointing to an answer. Her face falls, and she nods her head forward twice in understanding as her smile falters. Clapping her hands together loudly before assuming a 'hands-up' gesture, she interrupts his thoughts. "You know what – look, no harm no foul. Forget I asked."

"Morgan, wait. I…"

"It's okay, Greg. I can take a hint," she says, referring to the long hesitation from Greg and the silence that has stretched between them.

Greg curses himself for allowing the chance to pass him by. Blame it on the cognitive dissonance, but he attempts to tell himself that maybe what they have can be enough for now.

Morgan looks at the floor momentarily, then back at him. She runs her tongue halfway across her bottom lip, catching the flour from before. She sighs, the sound morphing into an easy smile and a glint in her eye. "Just know… if you ever change your mind… the offer stands."

She settles further into the chair as Greg struggles to string his next sentence together. "So, what's the latest theory on your hit and run?"

Their previous conversation and the opportunity presented within it have become sealed off. Greg wishes his indecision hadn't left him with such overwhelming disappointment.

Later that same day, Greg makes his way to the trace lab to Hodges to discuss the scrapes of suspected car paint found in the wound of his victim. Hodges delivers the results with his regular amount of flair, leaving Greg mildly amused and annoyed at the same time. He can remember his own lab days, how excited he would get to present his work, how every match he made somehow made his world feel smaller. Greg can't find it in himself to chastise Hodges over how long it takes to reach a conclusion, not when he used to be the same way.

On his way out, Greg inquires to which treat was Hodges favorite from the earlier batch, recalling what Morgan had told him when she entered their office.

"What treats?" Hodges asks, sincerely perplexed.

Greg's heart skips a beat in realization. "Never mind, thanks Hodges," he says in passing, his mind analyzing the ruse that has been pulled on him, and the regret that seems to have increased tenfold in the light of this new evidence.

* * *

**PART THREE – LAB ACCIDENTS AND LOCKER ROOM CONFESSIONS**

Nick's onto him. Most of the lab probably is. The team was notorious for setting bets on the smallest of events, and he had an inkling about a pot steadily rising behind his back. Nick is just the most obvious about it. He can tell from the raise of the Texan's brow that the older man is questioning Greg's ability to remain focused and impartial when the team works a big case and he's within Morgan's company.

He really can't blame Nick. Even if he were to look past the number of glances Morgan and him throw at one another for their own silent benefit, his outburst the other month with their suspect in the helicopter conspiracy was incredibly unprofessional. She has an effect on him, one that leaves him susceptible to being distracted by her every move. He normally had such a hold on his emotions, but there was something about _her_ making him unable to act rationally. If he stopped to wonder why he was so invested in finding Morgan that day, it'd would have been time wasted that should have been spent finding her. Now that he had the luxury of time to daydream, he still didn't try and analyze it. He couldn't afford himself such indulgences when there was work to be done.

Nick and Greg are reviewing their results from Wendy's second replacement when the unthinkable happens. Nick clumsily knocks the ice cold ethanol off the lab bench while the two of them are listening to their DNA results. The liquid typically used for DNA extraction is now all over Greg.

While this is certainly not the first time Greg has been in this scenario given his history, it is the first in which Greg was lucky enough to have placed their results out of harm's way. It was also the first in which he was unlucky enough to have skipped out on borrowing a lab coat. His torso and forearms are completely drenched in the liquid, and his nose hairs are quickly stinging with the scent.

"Watch it!" He cries too late in shock. It was uncharacteristic of his partner to make such a harmless yet careless mistake. He supposes he should be thankful Nick hadn't bumped one the other bottles lingering around, as Greg is all too aware of what chemicals are lurking about in this laboratory. There are a few lingering around that would be catastrophic if spilled on unprotected skin.

Nick at least has the good sense to look apologetic. "Ah jeez. I'm sorry man. Hey, I've got an extra shirt in my locker if you need to change."

Greg rolls his eyes at his predicament. He isn't mad, just frustrated with the proceedings of the night itself. He can't keep walking around with a stain like this, as he should really run it through the laundry to save himself from any contaminating any evidence on accident. There's only one option available to him. "That'd be great, thanks."

The pair make way to the locker room – even though Greg knows the combination to Nick's lock – and Greg begins unbuttoning his dress shirt. The chemical has also soaked his blazer, so unfortunately that would have to take a reprieve for the night as well.

He's got one arm out of the sleeve when he hears a distinctly female whistle.

"Isn't this a bit of an inappropriate venue for a strip show, gentlemen?" Morgan questions gleefully, entering the room and jimmying her own locker open. Despite her hands intricate movements, her eyes never waver as they vertically take in the sight of Greg appreciatively. There's a sly smile on her face, causing Greg to break out in a bashful one of his own.

"It's all Nick's fault really-"

"Now now Greg, it was an accident-"

"-and you wouldn't be far off to say it might be a ploy to get me naked, although he might grow defensive because I believe I'm putting in more hours at the gym than he is-"

"I'll show you defensive, you little-"

Morgan watches the two men bicker and jab with a giggle of her own amusement pushing past her teeth. With every passing day at this lab, she was beginning to realize what a family this team truly was, the teasing all-inclusive. Morgan allows herself a moment to be amused at their antics as she watches Greg fluster in obtaining the spare shirt from Nick, who is now holding the garment in question above his head in true older-brother fashion.

It is only when Greg finally does shuck his own shirt off completely and turn his back to her in the midst of the pursuit that she gasps.

"Wait, Greg – what are these?" Her voice is apprehensive as she gestures to his back.

Greg looks confused at her tone, and looks down at himself. "What are… _oh."_

She's referring to the extensive scarring on his back, the scarring he's nearly forgotten about himself. He was lucky the explosion had only marred his back, as this meant the terror could be easily concealed. Time had healed the majority of the damage, cleansing the surface of the once charred and blistered skin. The worst of the burn still left a lingering mark however, stretching across his shoulder blades and down his spine. The scars were easy to forget about, as when the nerves healed they were no longer as sensitive as they previously were. It was like a back tattoo – he was consciously aware of its presence while being able to blissfully and temporarily forgetful of its existence.

Greg also can't remember too many incidents in recent memory where his shirt was absent in the presence of someone who wasn't acutely aware of the backstory. He's never had to explain these scars before now.

"There was an incident…" he begins, and pauses. Now that he's bringing it up, he can smell the burnt plastic, the stench strong enough to place him back to the scene from years past. "…an explosion in the DNA lab, no one's fault really," Greg continues, aiming for a lighthearted approach. It doesn't work, as the space they occupy now feels tense with his admission. He fiddles with his hands, feeling uncomfortable.

Morgan steps over the bench separating the three of them. "May I take a look?"

Greg shrugs in approval, but his skin immediately alights with a cold sensation under her watchful gaze. She's studying the patterns that he too has tried endlessly to gain a better look at. In the first few months after the accident he'd taken photos, stared in the mirror until his neck hurt, tried everything to get a better look at the trauma. In the recent years, he no longer gives it the satisfaction of his attention.

Her fingers lightly ghost over the coarser sections. Greg doesn't feel any judgement coming from Morgan, or even pity. There is a sense of natural (if morbid) sense of curiosity. While it doesn't make him feel self-conscious, it does make him feel a tad tense.

Nick senses Greg's uneasiness, and he clears his throat loudly and lightly punches Greg's left shoulder. He boisterously steals the attention in an attempt to brighten up the metaphorical cloud that has opened above their heads. "This guy? Tough as _nails_. You should hear about the time our old boss, Grissom, used his feet for an experiment and left him hobbling around for three days."

"I'm not showing you my feet next if that was your intention, Nick. Indulge your kinks on your own time," Greg teases, placing laughter behind his unsteady voice in an attempt to show that he is slowly but surely on his way to pulling himself out of his sudden funk. "Now knock it off and pass the shirt already, Nick."

There's no point in making Greg jump for it any longer, so Nick relents and saves the rest of his hazing for another occasion. "I'll catch you two later, I think I can hear Russell calling my name."

Greg finishes dressing as Morgan finishes putting her personal items away. They close their locker doors simultaneously, turning their heads with mischievous smiles at the energetic sound their synchronized actions created. Greg rocks on the balls of his feet and waits for her to leave, ladies first mentality taking over.

"For what it is worth, those scars make you look pretty badass," Morgan comments, empathy and admiration evident in her tone.

Greg can't stop the warmth spreading in his chest. "Thank you."

* * *

**PART FOUR – ROARING THUNDER AND EVIDENCE COLLECTION**

Greg pulls his head to the left, feeling the tendons stretch out from their resting position. He's been craning his neck forward for a while now, and while the bones are fine, there is a numbness accompanying the misalignment of the muscle. He adjusts his grip on his camera to allow himself to push his shoulders back next. An audible pop radiates from Greg's back, and he groans softly at the release.

When he was a CSI-1, he hated being the only person subjected to running the perimeter of a scene. It often appeared to him as a form of grunt work, or even punishment. Somewhere along the line, his mindset had shifted. Greg began to enjoy the hunt for footprints, signs of entry, and miscellaneous odd trinkets one finds when the perp travels outdoors.

Their current homicide is in the middle of a street. Morgan suspected a body dump when they got the call, but there is too much blood and other evidence present, suggesting this scene was their primary. It wasn't just the metallic smell of blood in the air signalling this has the potential to be dangerous. They had a killer on their hands who seemingly isn't afraid to kill a person in the middle of a well-lit and traffic heavy street. There would definitely be a rush on processing this evidence when they returned.

Speaking on the evidence, Greg was coming up short. His investigation of the perimeter has turned up little to no evidence. He could only hope Morgan was having better luck, because he's barely been able to put three items into his larger brown evidence bag, and even those items have the potential to be coincidental due to their location.

"Do you smell that?" Morgan asked, pulling him from his analysis and theorizing.

Greg turned his head towards her, resisting the lab-drilled urge to waft the surrounding air into his nose instead of taking a sniff. Pulling air into his nostrils, he doesn't just smell it. He can practically taste it.

"Rain…" Greg notes. "We need to start pulling in everything, _now_. Our scene is about to get washed away in the next minute."

The two of them began to bag their minute amount of evidence at a break-neck pace. They care less about proper labeling and procedure in the realization they have seconds to bag their evidence in its original condition. Greg haphazardly begins snapping excess photos of the scene, in case they've missed anything and require a photo log of it later. A wet drop makes its way onto the lens, and Greg knows they are out of time.

Before closing his evidence collection kit, he reaches into the place where he keeps supplies that are more personal in nature. Launching the hidden umbrella, he motions for Morgan to join him under the safety it provides. She's quick to take the hint, gathering the two brown bags of what little evidence they've been able to pull from the street, and running for the cover he's provided.

She's comes in speedy, her body rocking into his upon impact. Greg is quick to curl one arm around her to quell the leftover momentum.

A small laugh bubbles up from Morgan's lips. "Russell really picked a great night to run that quick errand, huh," she reflects.

Greg can't help but think about the chances of their predicament, and agree. "No kidding."

Russell had gotten a call and said he had to run for 'only a moment, guys!'. They'd all driven to the scene together, not seeing the need to take three vehicles when they were all ready to go at the lab. Now, Greg was mostly wishing they'd followed protocol, minus the part of him that wasn't bothered by having to huddle with Morgan for warmth in the midst of this cold night. It gave him a hardy excuse to indulge himself on her company.

The investigator's breaths were combining in thick white clouds in front of them, obscuring their depth perception with every exhale until the vapour would dissipate. The rain has picked up in intensity, and with it, the seasonal cold snap Vegas has been under lately. He's thinking about how lucky he was to have brought a jacket on top of his hoodie when he feels a violent tremble from beside him.

Turning his head, Greg realizes Morgan is shaking. Stray droplets are trickling down her face, leaving tracks down her cheeks that he might mistake for tears on any other occasion. Her arms are holding their evidence bags, the paper clattering together as her body shakes itself to produce and conserve heat. Morgan didn't exactly dress for the weather, not that Greg would have predicted an event like this either. He can still remember his first trip into the field, unauthorized thanks to an 'all-hands-on-deck' call. He'd spent most of that night shivering – much to Nick's amusement. The notes he'd attempted to take for Nick that night had been illegible with the amount his hands had been shaking.

There's a comment on his lips about the importance of always coming prepared, like Nick once told him, but it dies as he watches another shiver shake Morgan from head to toe. A sound of iced discomfort pushes past her pursed lips.

"Morgan, here."

Greg gently passes the umbrella handle to Morgan, who looks ready to protest that her arms cannot handle holding much more. He shushes her unspoken statement as he begins to shrug his arms from his jacket sleeves. Greg is careful to stay within the circumference of dry security provided by the umbrella, not wanting to soak the garment before he can pass it on. The absence of the jacket doesn't leave him vulnerable, thanks to the double layer he already had on. As gentle as he can possibly manage, he drapes the material over shoulders that are pressed high up towards her ears.

"Turn for a second," he suggests, and Morgan pliantly follows. Greg pulls the fabric close near her neck, his fingers brushing her chilled collarbone. He quickly transfers the evidence bags into his own arms, giving her a chance to zip up the coat.

Her hands struggle to pull up the zipper as they shake, yet once her fingers yank it up to her chin, her next breath is steady and carries with it a vast amount of appreciation. She gawks at him, shaking her head and stealing back one of the bags. "You didn't have to do that, Greg, but thank you."

He shrugs his shoulders. "What can I say? My mother taught me better than to leave a lady out in the cold."

They watch blood and excess trace race one another towards the storm drain, rushing to be the first to disappear into the city's system of storm drains, out of sight but not out of mind for the two investigators. A crack of thunder roars above them, the sound as sudden as it is disruptive.

"You think we'll still be able to make a conviction? I hate the thought of this ruining our chances," Morgan confesses.

Greg shakes his head slightly in consideration. "In all honesty, even without the rain, there wasn't much to collect. I think our best chance is to hope we can pull DNA off the victim's clothing that matches our killer. There was absolutely nothing I could see of use out here. Hell, we fit everything into three collection bags, and we don't have any fingerprints or even a-"

"-murder weapon!" Morgan cries out, finishing his sentence.

He raises his eyebrow at the volume of her statement. "Precisely… that's what I mean. Without a weapon, a conviction is going to be impossible-"

"No, Greg! Look!"

She points urgently with her free hand at the storm drain they were watching prior to their conversation. Greg finds himself squinting in the fog the downpour is creating around them, and finds himself unable to perceive what Morgan is apparently seeing.

"The murder weapon, it's going to drop down the drain!"

Shoving the evidence bag in her arms back towards him suddenly, he fights not to lose grip on it as Morgan quickly delves into her pockets for a set of sterile gloves. Morgan leaves the protection of the umbrella, her pace impossibly brisk as she makes her way to the drain. Water droplets splash upwards behind every impact her foot makes on the damp concrete. When she reaches the drain, she drops to her stomach and reaches her arm inside the small opening.

Greg watches in bewilderment, still confused what evidence she is attempting to save. Her elbow is hitting the sidewalk curb as her hand continues its efforts to rescue their case. He knows the moment Morgan has a grasp on whatever the object is, because the sigh mixed with a cry of relief can be heard over the commotion of the storm.

"I've got it!" Morgan screeches in victory.

Standing and cradling the item carefully in her hands, as if it were a lost bug in the lab needing to be taken back outside, she makes her way back to her partner. Once she is back under the dry shelter Greg is providing, Morgan reveals her find.

An almost empty syringe, definitely used.

Morgan looks at him, glimmers of hope unmistakable in her irises. "I remembered David mentioning the puncture mark on our victim's neck before he left. I know the defense will say anyone in the area could have used this since we didn't find it on our original search, and the chance of prints is shot by the rain - but if we can match the remaining contents in this syringe to the tox report from our vic, we might have our murder weapon!"

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Greg felt himself nodding as he listened to her excited explanation. It might be a long shot indeed, but it could also be the winning match point. The words slipped from his mouth before his brain could filter them, "You're incredible, Morgan, you know that?"

Despite the thinly veiled second meaning, she takes his words at face value. "Well, it's always nice for someone to take the liberty of noticing," she remarks, although her smirk and response would suggest she heard his alternative intention behind the original comment. "Pass me one of those bags? The sooner we put this away, the better."

"And let's give Russell another call while we're at it," Greg agreed, passing her the required materials to safely bag their newly acquired clue. "He won't be able to make us work any overtime if we're both out with a cold next week."

Another thunderous bang rings out above them, and ironically the two investigators find themselves relaxing as the night passes them by. They had a plan, and they each other. No amount of rain could change that.

* * *

**PART FIVE - BROKEN RECORDS AND LINGERING GHOSTS**

_"_ _These guys spend more time living in the past than in the present," Greg said, exasperated from a lack of progress on the case._

_Morgan shakes her head. "Kind of sounds like you are talking more about yourself than you are Grazetti."_

Greg's been standing here, watching the turntable rotate as the sounds of Sinatra softly fill the air. His mind is replaying every moment from the past day, the time he's spent chasing down the person who killed Alison. She'd been murdered over a vinyl record. A record she was hoping to gift to him, a token meant to tell Greg how much she still cared for him, despite the time they've spent apart.

Alison's gift had been shredded, pieces and scraps scattered alongside her body in the piano. The copy playing now was from Morgan. She'd somehow managed to track down an exact replacement specifically for him. He listens intently, but his thoughts wander without permission. He'd admit to feeling sorry for himself on this lonely night, and to picking at a newly opened wound with every 'what if' his mind can possibly dream up.

He doesn't know why this case is hitting him so hard, not when him and Alison had been over for some time. If he was being honest with himself - they were over before they even began. They'd had a one night stand, and he'd caught unrequited feelings like he knew he would. Clearly, Alison had also caught feelings. He hasn't been with anyone since, not trusting himself to love again after so much heartbreak.

_Morgan took his hand. "You're a hot guy. You're smart, you're funny, a total catch… what I'm saying is with Alison, with your obsession with the past – maybe you should stop looking back. You know… try moving forward."_

He can't stop thinking about Morgan since she left the locker room. It was Morgan who pushed him in the direction that cracked the case; Morgan, who gifted him this record along with a heartfelt pep talk; Morgan, who he'd turned down and regretted ever since. Her blonde hair had slipped across her pink blouse when she leaned to grab at his hand today. The squeeze she gave it was sweet, her words even more so.

 _"_ _The best is yet to come…"_ were her parting words, leaving him yet again speechless in her absence.

He hadn't heard those words in so long, not since Greg worked a case with Vegas legend Lois O'Niell. There was an autobiography resting the shelf in their shared office in which the vibrant Miss O'Niell had kindly signed a copy of her book. She'd done so before her untimely assisted suicide. The words read out in vibrant cursive, ' _Greg – the best is yet to come'_.

It's taken Greg another seven years to hear that phrase again, to realize the meaning. When he does, they are tumbling from the very lips he would trade his life for at the chance to know how they taste. The words are coming from the same voice that had pleaded with Greg earlier tonight to bring himself out of the past, and into a brighter future.

Watching the record before him spin in a circle, Greg makes the snap decision that he is done doing the same.

When the shift concludes, Greg walks with Morgan to the parking garage. He listens as she recaps her own evidence review on a domestic case, and waits for his chance.

"I heard you giving Sinatra a listen in the audio lab earlier. Given the age of it, I hope the record didn't skip too much," Morgan explains, leaning against her car's bumper.

"Not at all," Greg says, stepping towards her with false confidence. "In fact, I meant to thank you for the kind gesture."

Morgan eyes glimmer with excitement in the dark lighting of the garage. "You're very welcome. You know, people around here told me you might not like it. They said for as much as you enjoy Vegas history, your music taste lends itself towards something… more intense."

"What can I say? They aren't wrong, but that was mostly certainly a result of my youth. Music tastes evolve, as do people. Now - while I'm excellent at solving cases, I like to think that I remain a man of many mysteries," he flirts. "Let it also be noted that you should never take Hodges word about anything as fact."

This earns a light laugh from Morgan, who's been around long enough to acknowledge the infamous frenemies situation between the lab rat and field mouse.

"It was Nick actually who told me," she confesses, cupping her hand around one side of her mouth in mock concealment. "He also said you used to wear Hawaiian shirts around the lab… and top it off with gloves on your head… that is, when you didn't opt for a hat from the fedora collection in your locker instead… or when you weren't showing off your newest hair color-"

Morgan's smile splits further with every secret shared, her excitement bubbling up to contaminate the annunciation of her words with shakes of laughter, until the words are cut off completely.

Greg shakes his head, cheeks flushing as he smiles alongside her with proper chagrin. He bounces forward on the balls of his feet, feeling spotlighted and looking elsewhere from her. Running a hand through his hair self-consciously, he stays smiling as he feels the voluminous recovery he's gained since he stopped bleaching the strands. If there was one thing he was thankful not to inherit from his grandfather, Papa Olaf, it was the early patterned balding.

"Remind me to tell Nick that we'll be solving his murder next if he keeps opening his trap to beautiful ladies about my past."

"Ah, yes I forgot about your self-proclaimed reputation as a mystery man," she teases, before becoming serious. "If it makes you feel any better, these lips are sealed."

The mention of her mouth leads his eyes right to them, his lust overpowering his next thought. A small yet comfortable silence stretches between them as Greg works to find the courage he had when they entered the garage.

"You know," he begins. "If you keep getting those stories from other sources, I'll be out of stories to share when you agree to have a drink with me."

Greg watches her sudden astonishment at his proposition. "Assuming your offer is still open?" he adds, doubt creeping in. The last thing he wants is to pressure Morgan into something she doesn't want.

They've become drawn to one another throughout the conversation. Their bodies are impossibly close, while still leaving a charged space between. It was as if they were magnets fighting against an inevitable collision course determined by both fate and physics. The connection manages to pull her arm away from Morgan's side and towards his own forearm, her grip urgent.

"Greg… I…" her gaze falters downwards, and Morgan sighs. "I want to. I really do. It's just…"

Time stretches between them again, but it is much more uncomfortable as Morgan fights to find the words that won't shatter his fragile heart.

"If you've moved past this, I can understand that," Greg offers as an out, trying but failing to keep the hurt from his voice. It isn't really her fault that he can't fight off the disappointment built up by his own faithfulness in dangerous daydreams. It certainly isn't her fault that today has been the definition of a shit-show.

"It isn't that, Greg. It's just…"

Morgan looks visibly distressed, and Greg realizes he needs to be patient a moment longer. There's a gleam in her waterline suggesting whatever she is trying to say has become more difficult than he originally realized.

"…you've had a rough night, Greg. You need to allow yourself time to grieve your loss, and I know better than most that running from your current problems into new problems won't solve anything."

He involuntarily flinches at her words, at Morgan describing the possibility of them as a 'problem'. He never thought she would see what they could potentially have together as a mistake. He tries to step back, but Morgan pushes off from where she was leaning on her car. Her grip on his arm is still insistent. It's a point of contact that seems to burn despite the fabric barrier, her touch igniting, escalating the squeezing in his chest.

"That's not what I- that's not what I meant- I'm not saying no, Greg! I'm not saying no," she repeats, having inferred his interpretation from his reaction. Morgan's gaze locks with his, demanding attention to her next words.

"I'm saying that when we pursue this, I want you to be in the right headspace. Right now, I can see _ghosts_ in your eyes. They are a product of the job we do every day, but some are more personal than others. This isn't the right time, Greg… and I think you know that too."

Greg's next breath catches in his throat, the air thick and unable to pass through as easily as it typically would. His chest stutters with the force of the expulsion effort as he begins to taste unshed tears at the back of his throat.

She's right.

His thoughts are still wrapped around what has transpired. The loudest of the voices is screaming out how everything that transpired today is Greg's own fault. Alison was killed obtaining a gift meant for him. If he hadn't made an empty promise to come back and visit New York, what would have become of her? The thoughts are compounded by frightening images from her crime scene, which morph in supplement with the faces and details from all the other cases and people he's not been able to save as the years have pushed onwards.

While he can normally keep moving forward, this case has stopped him in his tracks, derailed him in a way that will require precious time to fix. On some level, Greg knows that he is seeking comfort in the form of her affection. If they initiate their budding relationship now, he risks using Morgan to put himself back together.

She deserves better than that.

"Greg? Say something, please," she asks of him worriedly.

"You're right," he admits. He pulls his arm back to himself, her hand falling slowly back to her side. Greg uses the newly freed arm to sharply wipe at his watering eyes. He shuffles to find the keys to his Denali, "you're always right, Morgan, and I should go."

The sound of the locks clicking open in the vehicle are compounded by the sound of his retreating footsteps. Greg's got his hand on the door handle, poised to pull, when he hears her pleading voice again.

"If you need to talk tonight, or any night… you call me okay? Or you call Nick, or Sara, or Russell… what I'm trying to say is… don't think just because you shouldn't be in a relationship right now that you should also have to mourn in isolation. We are here for you, Greg."

He hesitates, still feeling the unremitting need to leave the presence of others to put himself back together. He had never been the type of person to reach out to others for help. The last time Greg could remember doing so was after Warrick's death, when the department had brought in a therapist. Greg can't see himself opening up to someone he's close with about his demons yet – and he knows this is one of many reasons why he isn't ready to be with Morgan.

He knows that he can do it. Put himself back together. File the sharper edges of his hurt away, and allow someone to be close without causing them harm too. He knows he can be the man she deserves. He knows he can. It will only take time.

With a curt nod, Greg tries to muster up a small smirk for her. "I'll see you tomorrow, Hollywood."

* * *

**PART SIX – PAINFUL MEMORIES AND SPIRITUAL HEALING**

"Greg?"

It's been almost five months since that night in the garage. Despite the constant slashing of funds to the department, crime was seemingly at an all-time high. Each member of the graveyard team was juggling a variety of cases and callouts, and the labs were severely backlogged. Greg didn't mind as much. The more he kept his mind and hands busy – the better.

Morgan had essentially told him to come back to her when he was ready. He'd been doing a lot of self-reflection since that night, piecing together the various traumas that have left deeper scars than anything currently visible on his body. Greg began seeing a new department-issued therapist, opening up to another person, even if it wasn't someone who knew him well. He wasn't just doing it for Morgan either, but for himself.

First, there was his childhood. Being a child prodigy isn't often a social success story when you spend your time being shifted from grade to grade, never being able to form lasting friendships with people of your own age. His parents had refused to let him play sports despite his protests, as they weren't able to have the large family they'd always dreamed of, and thus were unwilling to tempt fate via allowing the potential of unnecessary physical injury to their only child. Sure, there was the chess team; however, that hadn't exactly won him any points with the ladies or his classmates. Greg can remember starting Stanford a year or more early than most of his peers, and always feeling like he had something to prove.

The feeling hadn't gone away. When he'd been lucky enough to land a job in Vegas, suddenly Greg had his own DNA laboratory. There was no need to hang his degree on the wall when his work clearly showcased his skills. Greg was an expert chemist. He knew how to do his job, and he knew he did it well. Yet, every time a CSI came to pick up their results, he felt the desire to show off his abilities and knowledge. Even a single discrepancy in one result spent him spiraling into quadruple checking evidence that he'd already triple checked upon original analysis. The worst was with his boss, Grissom. There was nothing he sought out with more desire than for Grissom to take pride in him.

Even with his promotion to field work, his mistakes built up in his head. Greg was adding a tally – from the lab explosion, to Nick's kidnapping, to killing Demetrius James, to Warrick's death, to Alison's murder, and so many more – and he was quickly crumbling under the weight. Greg realized he had never stopped seeking approval from others. The smallest errors began to feel like personal failures, like time wasted, like bodies piling up with the count written in blood on his forehead for all to see. It wasn't often that Greg found himself working towards his own personal goals without the driving force being the need to please those around him, to prove he was worthy of the life he had.

It was safe to say there had been a lot to unpack when he finally decided to sit down and divulge his hurt.

"Greg?"

The therapy is helping. Greg is becoming more comfortable with himself as time passes. With every session, he's able to put another ghost to rest, able to unburden himself of the responsibilities he assumed upon himself, even when no one had asked him to bear the burden of the blame. He's fostering the ability to quiet, even silence the voice of self-doubt that rings in his head. When he wakes, Greg spends his morning trying out new affirmations as he readies himself for the day ahead. Perhaps most shocking of all, he's finding enjoyment in his own company. He doesn't always feel the need to fill the space around him with social distractions, and this change is greatly improving his inner focus.

The others were noticing too. Greg was slowly becoming more and more certain in himself, and this self-assurance was palpable. The cases he worked allowed him to feel excitement again rather than melancholy. Perhaps it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows every day, but it was the comment he received from Nick stating that there was a glint back in his eye when he caught a break in a case. It was the shoulder nudge he got from Russell when he smiled with more than just his eye at a joke in the break room. It was the way breathing felt easier, less constrained.

Grissom loved rollercoasters, and Greg often thought it was because the ride represented life. The inevitable up's and down's, and the reminder of realizing you aren't in control of everything. The ironic part was the more Greg worked to prioritize his healing, the less severe the next drop seemed. He was growing less and less afraid as he learned to cope, to deal, to not lose himself in the darker parts of his history. This was now a coaster steadily climbing upwards.

If there was one thing about Greg that had remained constant, even after all this reflection time – it was that he still knew he wanted _her_. It was a matter of when, and how, and if Morgan would still care to chance loving him back after all the time he's spent making her wait for his own self-improvement.

"Earth to Greg, come in Greg," Sara states, waving a hand in front of his face.

His heart skips a beat. "What is it with this team and sneaking up on me?"

Sara snorted and raised her eyebrows animatedly. "I'd hardly call it 'sneaking' when I've said your name twice already."

"Oh," Greg reflects. "Sorry Sara."

She deposits herself in the chair in front of Greg's desk, her eyebrows staying up at the sight of the surface in disarray. "I was trying to ask who left the flowers on Morgan's desk, but now I think I should be asking you how many cups of coffee you have left until you start a murder board. You've got so many papers here, you're going to run out of room."

"I've got it handled, Sara. And why don't you ask Morgan yourself?"

Sara shrugged. "She hasn't been the talkative type this week. You two are close, I figured I ask you."

He spares a glance at his partner's desk. A decorum of white lilies' tied together are sitting on the desk, wrapped with a corresponding ribbon, not yet touched.

"White lilies," Sara begins when Greg remains quiet. "Typically used at weddings as a sign of innocence alluding to the bride's virginity. Lesser known is it's common use as a form of symbolism for mourning. Often, to represent restored innocence after death."

"A popular yet tasteful choice, don't you think?" Greg smirks, silently answering her previous question. "It's the anniversary of her Aunt's death this week. Morgan and her were close, she's taking it pretty hard."

Sara gawked. "Ecklie had a sister?"

"Nope, it's an Aunt on her mother's side."

Sara nodded. "I see. How did you find out? You two have been acting a bit weird all week around one another."

Greg sighed and decided to side step the later conversation. "I came into the office two days ago and caught her wiping a tear away. When I offered her a tissue, she told me about it. Her aunt was killed in a robbery gone bad about three years ago, no apparent motive or premeditation."

"Wrong place, wrong time," Sara explains, her voice thick with sympathy.

He nodded. "They were close, and her aunt often helped raise her once Morgan was living exclusively with her Mom. Morgan has nothing but happy and good memories with her… well, that and an abrupt ending. Doesn't seem fair."

"It often isn't," she reflects, and it doesn't sound like they are speaking only about Morgan's loss anymore. "Nonetheless, the flowers were kind of you, Greg."

"It's the least I can do-"

The door to the office opens, and Morgan has a box of evidence in her hands. The weight of it looks debilitating, as Morgan is currently leaning awkwardly against the door and using her knee to keep it all balanced. Sara is closest, and quick to jump to action to help. Once they've got four hands on it, they finish carrying it to the table with minimal grunting from their exertion. Sara manages to keep the heavy box away from the flowers, moving the petals from potential harm without drawing too much attention to her actions.

"Thanks Sara," Morgan says. Greg can immediately see what Sara was alluding to. Morgan looks tired. The voice of the blonde is low, lacking in its usual enthusiasm and curiosity. There are deep bags under her eyes and her lips are missing their typical flair of artificial and natural color.

"No worries. I've got some evidence to follow up on, good luck with… whatever _this_ is." Sara circles her hands overtop the box to clear up what she meant before making a hasty exit.

Morgan drops into her chair, breathing heavily and closing her eyes. There is a stress line on her forehead, and the way she goes to rub it suggests she's also battling an oncoming headache.

Greg makes his way over to her and lightly sits on the corner of her desk. Sara was kind enough to close the door behind her, and in doing so it has allowed Morgan a moment to breathe. There was always the danger of the lab or Russell interrupting them, but Greg was ready to chance it.

Her shoulders are trembling slightly, and her eyes are moist. Greg knows what he is observing – he's seen it in colleagues, victims, and even his own mother alike. There's no doubt that at some point in time while Morgan was growing up, she was taught that outward expressions of emotion left her at danger of being perceived as weak. He wishes he could dispel such notions from her mind. Greg wants to let Morgan know that she never has to quell her tears, quiet her emotions, or force herself to act in-authentically. Nothing could change his perception of her as the strongest woman he knows, not when he's seen her in action on so many incidents, small and large.

"What can I do?"

He knows if he were to ask the question the majority of people would have - 'are you okay' – he would receive a lie, or an insincere answer. Greg doesn't want her to feel this need to hide her emotions around him. Greg's only intent in this moment is to offer his services in any way he possibly can, to lessen the burden she's carrying with her. He was strong too, especially now that he was working on himself, and wished she would allow him to carry some of it.

Morgan's eyes are swimming with tears. The set of her jaw confirms why none have fallen yet, but it tells him everything he needs to know about the internal battle in her head. She's not meeting his eyes, and he doesn't force her to.

Her eyes wander to the white petals resting against the mahogany. Morgan's slender fingers reach out to pick the bundle up, bringing them closer for inspection. She inhales deeply, and seems to release the tension she's been valiantly holding back. A drop of salt drops onto the flower closest to Greg. Her free hand wipes at her face, and then reaches out towards the card. His name isn't on it by his own request, nor a pseudonym or any alias. There is only a message of condolence and empathy.

Something tells Greg that if Sara figured it out so quickly, Morgan would have no trouble coming to the same conclusion.

"Would you come with me?"

He wasn't expecting her inquiry. "Where?"

"Her graveyard is about twenty miles up the road, and not an anniversary has passed that I don't visit it," her words sound like a confession. "This year… I don't want to go alone."

Greg nods solemnly, recalling Morgan's words in the garage about not grieving alone. Perhaps he wasn't quite ready to talk about his demons with people he knows well, but Greg can certainly understand that Morgan's own way of processing cannot be accomplished in isolation.

"I'll drive us as soon as the shift is over."

And he does. Despite the melancholy over her head, Morgan had managed to rifle through the cold case evidence and connect it with a current open case. She'd proven her prime suspect guilty and helped bring not one, but two families closure. When Greg looks over at her and asks for directions, and he can see in her eyes that she's searching for that same feeling of conclusion.

Greg realizes much too late that one of his own ghosts is buried in this very graveyard, and he hasn't been able to bear another visit to this site since the funeral. It was eerie, that Greg could deal with death every day and spend so little time in an actual graveyard. He could spend hours in a morgue, yet he felt uneasy in the presence of a mass amount of rested souls.

Greg walks with Morgan to the headstone that reads _Camilla Brody_. When she slips a hand into his, he holds it tightly, and she reciprocates. He's happy to give her stability and strength, even with his mind preoccupied with thoughts of the grave site resting two rows down and to the left.

She seems content to pray silently. Every so often, Morgan tells Greg out loud another short story about a time her Aunt encouraged her to follow her passions, or a time her aunt taught her a valuable lesson, or a general comment about how much she misses her. When Morgan speaks, Greg is all too happy to listen intently to every word as the sun begins to break daylight above them.

Morgan asks for a final moment alone, and Greg obliges. His feet carry him until he's stopped in front of another grave. The words are a bit chipped, the stone worn from the weather conditions of the past six or so years, but otherwise the surface is pristine.

_Warrick Brown, 1971-2009. Son, Father, and Friend. We thank you for your Service._

Greg can remember the funeral procession, and sitting in the pew row next to an emotional Catherine. He can recall the feel of the smooth service flag that was later draped over the closed coffin, and the suffocating squeeze of his own tie every time his lungs refused to take another steady breath. He can recall the sound of Tina's muffled sobs from behind him as she cradled her child, and the sound of Nick sniffing back his own cries.

He can remember Grissom's eulogy. _"Just before he died, we were all having breakfast together… our team… his friends… his family."_ It had been so uncharacteristic to see his boss so choked up in a public display, but the scenario in which it was taking place had felt equally as displaced. It was never supposed to be Warrick, never supposed to be a loss like that at the hands of one of their own trusted members.

Greg kneels before the stone, placing one hand on top of the granite.

"I know you're in a better place now, Warrick." He pauses to bow his head. "And although nothing will ever make up for the untimely loss, for the way you were prematurely ripped from us… I want you to know that I appreciate you. You taught me… god, you taught me so much, Warrick. You didn't have to take me under your wing, or train me, or look out for me – but you did. And you never complained once.

"I never got the chance to thank you. I think that's what I regret the most, the assumption I operated on that there would always be more _time_. Time to spend with you, time to appreciate you, time to thank you. We never got that. Even your death serves to remind me, no, teach me that there are no guarantees of time. Teach me that life is short and unrelenting."

Greg pauses again, having rambled himself into a place without any real point. A kind hand rests on his shoulder this time, and he glances up to see Morgan. Dried tear tracks are evident on her own face, she now reciprocates being the energy source that he was for her. Greg appreciates that there is no need to feel guilt at taking a moment to process his own loss, even if they came here for Morgan. Greg covers her warm hand with his own.

"I never thought I would know how it feels," he starts again, "to miss someone so dearly. To wish you could go back in time and scream at them until they can't mistake how much they've impacted your life. To tell them how they've reshaped your past, present, and future with their presence."

He stands finally, and Morgan doesn't waste a moment folding herself into Greg's arms. He can't tell who is seeking comfort anymore and who is giving it. Greg supposes there is no real need to keep score, only a need to match his own breathing with another.

Morgan's voice is unsteady, but her words ring true. "I don't know what you believe in, nor did I have the chance to know Warrick. What I do know is the way you speak about him, and the way everyone else speaks about him. There can be no mistaking from your anecdotes how much he meant to all of you. Even if Warrick can't hear you now… Greg, I'm certain he knew what he meant to you, even if it was left unsaid."

"How can you be sure?"

Morgan's hands rub at his back, her head still pillowed on his chest. "The way you choose to love Greg, it isn't subtle. We tell people every day how we feel about them - how much we value them - through our actions. The saying is true, that our actions speak louder than our words. He would've had to have been deaf not to notice your appreciation. I believe Warrick knew, Greg. And he would be so proud of you if he could see you today."

The sun shines overtop of them, the morning finally awoken across the city. The warmth it provides is no match for the comfort Morgan was already given to him with her thoughtful words. When they make their way to leave, Greg seems to feel lighter under the weight of many revelations and Morgan's certainty.

He thinks after this trip, after seeing the light return to her eyes, that Morgan might feel the same way too.

* * *

**PART SEVEN – HESITANT FAVORS AND IRRITATED WORKERS**

Greg walks into a quiet trace laboratory - a rarity considering the man who runs it - and places another file folder on top of a stack beginning to resemble a Jenga-tower.

There was no doubting that Russell was a fantastic boss, and an inspiring leader. In all honesty, Greg really enjoyed working with the guy. What was less enjoyable was Russell's inability to plan ahead when it came to various staffing affairs. It was by no means a unique attribute in his boss, as Grissom and Catherine had also made their fair share of mistakes in long-term planning; however, this latest disorganized instance has thrown the crime lab into a state of frenzied chaos.

The latest replacement for Wendy in DNA had quit last week, the third to do so since her depart. Henry is at the annual forensic analysis convention in Michigan, and Bobby is sick with something fierce. Only a grumpier than usual Hodges and Archie remain. Each are working overtime to accomplish the backlog created by their counterparts absences. Each were also auspiciously tempered over having been passed over for a chance to attending the conference. The air around the graveyard team has begun to feel tense, and Greg is quick to slip away before he can get dragged into another rant from a frustrated Hodges.

As Greg makes his way down the sparsely occupied hallway, he feels his chest lighten with every step he remains unnoticed. If he were to be asked if he was looking over his shoulder to ensure the success of his getaway or intentionally lightening his footfalls, he would surely deny such an outrageous accusation. He reaches his office door and is certain he's made a clean getaway.

"Greg!"

His shoulders involuntarily cringe at the mention of his name, and he doesn't stop or turn towards the distinctly female voice calling out for him.

"Greg, I know you heard me!"

Greg scrunches his eyes in defeat, and slowly rotates his body towards her. "Morgan, what can I do for you?"

On any other occasion he'd be thrilled to see Morgan, or any of his teammates. As it were, he's been on his guard all week, and for good reason. There is a small sterile swab collection box in her hand and a pleading look on her face.

This was exactly what he was afraid of, what he was working so hard to avoid from everyone all week. The last thing he wanted was a temporary return to the lab that makes his world feel as large as the common marble.

"Before you say no," Morgan begins, predicting the sentiment on his lips. She's stopping in front of him and shaking her head. "Please know that I wouldn't be asking unless I was desperate… not that you are the last person I would come to with this… because you are clearly more than qualified, but I understand it has been a while… and I know you've already turned Sara and Nick away when they asked this week-"

Greg couldn't help the smirk emerging across his lips as he watched her babble. It reminded him of their first conversation, when he'd felt nervous enough to spontaneously combust, and managed to call her a nerd.

"-but I don't think I have a single other lead worth pursuing. If I can just get a hit on this sample in CODIS, it could crack my entire case wide open… what I'm trying to say in many, many words now, is that I swear I will never ask you for another favor ever again if you could _please_ do this for me… only this once, Greg."

Morgan looks fatigued, and maybe that's the first chink in his armor of defense. It could also be the excuse Greg's making to himself to explain why his resolve has crumbled so quickly at her beseeching. He bows his head in defeat, and slowly nods his answer.

"Yes!" She cries out, hopping up and down twice in excitement at her win.

Greg finds it as endearing as the other actions he's also caught her doing. It was the things she did absentmindedly, the motions that went unnoticed that were the most dear to him. It was the way Morgan would brush her blonde hair out of her eyes by curling it behind her ear; the way she would hold her eyes shut for a millisecond in shock with her mouth agape when she heard an unexpected trace report; the way Morgan would curl two hands around her mug instead of one, and claim it was a need for stability even when Greg could tell from the crinkle of her eyes that the action brought her comfort; the way Morgan would grimace but not comment on the smell when Greg returned from garbage runs and de-comp investigations.

Make no mistake, Morgan was fierce, and to cross her would be to do yourself a severe disservice. The irony was the contradiction itself, the way she was so independent and tough, and such a kind-hearted soul wrapped in a small sleek body. As she passes the swab sample into his hands, Greg finds he doesn't really mind losing his tenacity when he's losing it to her.

"You really shouldn't make promises like that though, Morgan," he warns her in an attempt to bring levity back to his own predicament. "Knowing you, I highly doubt this will be the last time you request a consultation with an expert like myself."

Morgan does have the smarts to look a bit sheepish, although she can't possibly know the depths to why switching roles is so devastating for Greg. It isn't her fault that he has an irrational fear of being permanently demoted back to his original station. He pushes past her hurriedly, eager to be done with this task.

When he pushes the door to the lab open, Hodges is standing over the printer. One of his hands is pulling at a paper that is bent out of shape, the corners mismatched in length and the ink smudged beyond readability. The lab tech's other hand is balled into a fist and raised menacingly over the surface of the malfunctioning device. The older man looks over at Greg as if he's been caught red-handed in his attempt to rid the lab of the jammed machine.

Greg sighs. "Ecklie isn't going to pay for another one, and you know that. He's already sent this one to be fixed three times, and he will do it again if it means saving a penny."

Hodges lowers his fist, breathing his ample frustration out through his nose. He then does what Hodges does best, and diverts. "What are you doing here, Sanders?"

Greg shrugs his arms into the dark blue lab coats, which were a vast improvement in quality over the former white coats. "Morgan's got me running a DNA sample for her. Did you want me to help with the printer-"

"I told her I would get to it," Hodges cries, crossing his arms defensively.

Greg decides to play diplomat, too tired to endure a lecture and instead hoping for a payoff in the form of some peace and quiet. "And I'm sure you would have, Hodges. I'm not trying to wreck your system or challenge your authority. The sooner I get to this, the sooner I can leave you be."

He gathers the salt solution, the vial of protein enzymes, the alcohol solution, a pipette, and the alkaline buffer. Thanks to his years of experience, the process already feels like second-nature to him, muscle memory taking over. There was three main steps to extraction, conducted in a five stage process which would then allow him to analyze the sample in a purer state.

Hodges continues spouting his mouth, determined to rub his own bad mood off on others. "All Morgan has to do is say 'Help me Sanders, you're my only hope', and she's got you regressing back to your lab days!"

"Lysis…precipitation…and purification," Greg whispered under his breath, ignoring Hodges and gathering the concentration he needs to prepare and start. He opens Morgan's sample cautiously once he's slipped on a pair of sterile gloves.

He's seen a lot of samples in his day, most brought to him with very microscopic evidence to work with as the investigators asked him to work miracles. This swab is heavily coated in blood, and Morgan's notes say it is from a secondary blood pool at the scene that she doesn't believe matches the primary victim. It is very possible that a match here might reveal a prime suspect, or a secondary victim.

"I must say," Hodges starts from his spot next to Greg's ear. Greg startles, forgetting the man hadn't left yet. "For as much as you used to broadcast your infinite knowledge surrounding innumerable kinks around the lab at any given chance - I never actually suspected you'd fall prey to someone cracking the proverbial whip on you on public. Morgan's has you wrapped around her little finger, Sanders," Hodges states bitterly.

He wants to reply. Greg would love nothing more than to tell Hodges where he can stick it, and actually mean it this time. The only thing keeping him from aiming a fierce glare in his direction is that he _knows_ Hodges. Hodges is poking at him because of his own dissatisfaction at a less than perfect week, and is attempting to cause a rise out of Greg for his own amusement.

To react would be to give Hodges power. There's also the part of him that wouldn't mind being considered Morgan's, even if the concept of ownership was meant as degrading. Greg takes a pair of scissors and snips the head of the swab onto the table in front of him, letting the cold snap of the metal blades be his only response as Hodges takes his leave.

The methodology of his work is meticulous. As he works, Greg catches a new variant of handwriting around the lab, the only evidence that another person had been in here. Greg can't even remember what their name was, as this was the third chemist in the past year to leave. The DNA section of the lab hasn't exactly been known for stability once Greg made the transition into the field, and the turnover rate was strikingly high. He knew why – DNA technician was a demanding position to be in. The pressure of sometimes having entire cases rest on a single processed sample was heavy, especially when the demands of the investigators piled high.

An hour or so later, Greg is sitting in front of the analysis computer. The sample he's perfected is now scanning for a potential match in the registry, and he watches the system sift through and discard dissimilar results. In an odd-clockwork all CSI's seem to be capable of, Morgan walks through the door the moment the system beeps with a positive match.

"Were your ears burning or something?" Greg jokes at the un-canniness.

Morgan beams at him as she tentatively steps a foot into the lab. "You found me a match?"

"The sample belongs to your victim's ex-husband, a man named Benjamin Inrut. He has several priors that landed him in CODIS - ranging from intoxicated driving, to domestic violence reports."

He motions for her to come have a look at the screen of result for herself, and Morgan is keen to follow his invitation. Together, they scan over the information. Greg reaches across the desk for a sticky note and pens down the name and last known address. Ripping it from the tacky surface, he sticks it to the front of a report cover and retrieves the full printout from the now-functioning copier. The printer and him had come to an understanding a long time ago, and Greg was quick to diagnose the issue while he'd been waiting.

Morgan gratefully takes the full report and looks at him incredulously. "I could kiss you right now," she says in passing, already turning her way to the exit. She's out the door in a flash, on her way to notify Brass and place her newest puzzle piece into the constructed frame of her case.

He suppresses his disappointment as he sterilizes his station and hangs up the lab jacket. Turing the lights off, Greg is happy to leave this lab behind in favor of the investigative work calling his name. It hadn't all been bad memories, and today helped him remember that. This place had been Greg's domain for quite a large portion of his young adult life, but he still found himself searching for another place to call home.

* * *

**PART EIGHT – APPREHENDING SUSPECTS AND PROMISING FUTURES**

"How's the case?" Sara asked him, sipping at the caffeine curled tightly within both her hands. It was a chilly night in Vegas, and there was suspicion floating around that either the lab's heat was broken, or Ecklie was attempting to save money wherever he could.

"I think we've got our guy," Greg confessed. "Harrison Pulok. We haven't even spoken to him yet, but the evidence doesn't lie. He's affiliated with the mob that we suspect ordered the hit, and Pulok left his fingerprints at the scene on the murder weapon. I couldn't have asked for a cleaner case."

Sara's eyebrows raised. "Then why are you sitting here in the break room?"

"We already checked his house, and had no luck. Brass put out a BOLO on his truck, and a warrant for Pulok's arrest. He's got his guys monitoring the status of those. I'm awaiting his call. We're hoping to approach him wherever we find him, conduct a public arrest to send a message to the mob."

"Are you sure it is a good idea to anger them like that?"

Greg shrugged. "I'm honestly not sure. We haven't attempted this strategy with this particular mob before. Interestingly enough, this mob hasn't even been considered active for close to two decades. It's a resurgence, a mixture of older Vegas legends teaching their younger heirs how to continue the empires they built. It will take some more digging to figure out why all of a sudden they've chosen now, but I'm sure once we speak with Harrison we might gain something."

"You know, I'm starting to think Russell assigning you to this case wasn't an accident," Sara states while pointing her index finger downwards on his case file. "I mean, who better to work it than the self-proclaimed Vegas history expert."

"What can I say?" He tosses his elbows, simultaneously shrugging his shoulders. He feels a cocky smirk appear as he clasps his hands in his lap. "I do love my work."

She chuckles, and starts to stand. Greg is about to stand as well and bid her farewell when the sound of Sinatra splits the air. With a hidden smirk behind her coffee, she nods to the cell phone on the table before leaving. "Somebody's lucky day. Best of luck on the arrest."

Greg quickly grabs it, and turns to place his own mug in the sink. "Sanders."

"Greg – we've located him," Brass explains. "He's been playing the slots at the Tangiers for the last hour. We've got the hotel security keeping an eye on him until we can get there. I'm sending Morgan along with you, as well as two of my officers. If you can pull a confession out of him, great. If not, I'll try my hand at it in interrogation. Let's hope he doesn't lawyer up on us."

"On it," Greg responds, hanging up and briskly walking to the locker room.

He's attaching his service weapon to his belt, the weight of it still foreign to him after all the years he's been without it. Double-checking he's got the correct information written in his callout notebook and his ID badge visible, Greg slips his leather jacket over his shoulders. He feels the material rest into place around his shoulder blades, years of use making it a perfect and snug fit.

Closing his locker and turning to exit, he spots her. She's got a sixth sense for always being around when he needs her, and right now Morgan's leaning against the door-frame with one foot crossed over the over.

"Hey there, 'Cool Rider'."

She's smiling at him deviously, and Greg returns it tenfold as he winces at her allusion. "If you are going to make the effort to make such a niche reference, you could have at least chosen a decent film."

"Are you ready to go?" She asks, not taking the bait.

Greg smiles. "Boldly so, perhaps even to where no man has gone before."

Morgan barks a sound of laughter, the sound deep, simultaneously amused and dreary. "I'm going to sidestep the fact you consider _that_ to be a better film by instead asking if I might have the honor of driving this time?"

He jingles the key to his Denali which he's now retrieved from his pocket. "Not a chance, Hollywood."

The ride is short. Tourism rates were dropping down during the colder months of the year, leaving less competition on the roads at night. Greg keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead of him, but sneaks glances out of the corner of his eye when he feels she's distracted enough to not notice. The bright lights of the Vegas strip mirror from the windows into the interior. They bounce effortlessly across Morgan's features, their colors illuminating the whites of her eyes, the soft curve of her nose, the slant of her lips. Conversation between them comes easily, as they discuss everything and nothing with no specific intent or conclusion.

Morgan loves to tell him stories about her life before Vegas when she has the chance, animating various events with her hands as she tells him about one of her more crazier cases, or personal adventures with her old colleagues and friends. Although he might be biased, Greg considers Morgan to be a gifted storyteller. To be fair, he'd listen to her read the phonebook if she did so with the same energy she has now.

When they arrive, hotel security is quick to direct them to Harrison. Their prime suspect doesn't completely match his former mugshot in the AFIS database, from when he was previously arrested for possession. Like any smart criminal, Harrison has changed his hair and grown a light scruff in an attempt to throw off immediate suspicion and recognition. The way his arm pulls on the casino's slot lever is brash and impatient.

"Harrison Poluk. LVPD," Greg states. "You're under arrest for the murder of Joseph Buknum."

Harrison doesn't even twitch. His eyes don't waver from the spinning numbers in front of him. "Like hell I am," he mutters. "Never even heard of the guy."

"Care to explain why we found your fingerprints on his murder weapon, then?" Morgan asks, her voice firm and cunning. There was no feeling quite like trapping someone in an obvious lie.

Harrison swiveled in his seat, his arm never leaving the lever. "Well _sweetheart_ , dirty cops are a dime a dozen. Wouldn't surprise me if you planted evidence to get back at me for my father's crimes. Been trying to outrun his shadow my entire life, but I bet you'd all love to see me go down because of it," he explained. Every word dripping from Harrison's lips was coated in thick lies, but Greg could see through it.

When Greg looked at Morgan, he reckoned from her look that she could sense it too. Morgan also looked displaced at the affectionate term, even disgusted by it. If this was the defense Harrison wanted to stick with, Greg certainly didn't stand a chance at pulling a confession out of him here. "You can explain that further to us at the station then. For now, you're coming with us."

Greg strode towards Harrison, reaching to pull his arm away from the lever when Harrison jerked it back of his own accord. His eyes were fire, burning with unadulterated hatred. "Don't touch me man, I'm warning you."

"Is that a threat, Harrison?" Greg accused, his calm demeanor shifting with every passing second. There was something unhinged about Harrison, something dangerous.

When Harrison remained silent, the two men were at an impasse. Greg stepped back and motioned to their officers to take over the arrest procedure, figuring Harrison might respond better to a uniformed officer. One way or another, Harrison was coming with them, whether he liked it or not.

Greg turned his back to Harrison – his first mistake.

"Greg!" Morgan cried out.

Before Greg can turn towards her, he is pushed forward. Unprepared, Greg stumbles a step or two to collect his balance before being able to twist around. To say the entire fiasco was uncoordinated would be too kind, because the moment Greg is able to turn, his eyes lock onto the blood dripping from Morgan's arm. There are audible gasps from the other casino guests who had been watching with curiosity. Morgan's face is contorted in pain, her other arm curling around the open wound protectively.

Time seemed to slow as Greg shifts his gaze onto Harrison, who is brandishing a serrated blade within his grasp and poised to strike again. Sound seems to disappear from his world as Greg begins to see red. Without any care for his own safety, Greg lunges at Harrison's raised wrist with tenacity and focus. Due to having the element of surprise on his side, Greg is able to secure a hold on Harrison's wrist and wrench it behind the man's back.

Locking his grip on Harrison's wrist with one hand and using his other arm to hold onto his suspect's shoulder, Greg shoves Harrison forward. The two men crash into the slot machine where Harrison was previously playing. Greg's own body weight crushes Harrison against the surface, and the machine rocks from the impact of the sudden movement.

Greg wouldn't have considered himself to be a violent man, but the dense pressure in his chest feels all-consuming. He'd never been in a position to purposely inflict pain, never would have thought himself capable of such action; yet, there is an immoral satisfaction Greg takes as he inches the man's captured wrist closer to his shoulder blades. Harrison's shoulder gives way easily, with an audibly sickening pop.

"Sanders," a nearby officer warns in a low tone. Greg spares the uniformed man a glance, and does begin to feel some guilt for his actions. Harrison hurt Morgan, and for that Greg wanted nothing more than to make him pay. The hotel casino cameras and the justice system would be the next piece of evidence they required, and Greg would need to let this play out as it was meant to, or risk losing himself in the process of revenge.

Harrison was beginning to squirm in Greg's tight hold. The investigator stopped his actions, stopped inflicting pain, but did not relinquish his hold. Instead, Greg spares a glimpse over his shoulder at his partner. Morgan is watching him with worry in her irises, her breathing labored from the sudden commotion. Her free hand is still cradling her wounded arm protectively.

The cut from Greg's angle looks fairly deep, and he spares a thankful breath that the wound is on the outer arm rather than opposite. It resembles a classic defensive wound. Other than looking visibly shaken by the turn of events, Morgan looks as good as can be expected. She's safe for now, and that's what matters.

She nods at him and whispers, "I'm okay, Greg."

Greg slowly turns back towards Harrison. Leaning in close, Greg gives him one final shove into the immovable machine. "You're going to regret that," he snarls, in a whisper only audible to Harrison's ears. The words are harsh, the tone seething. "And I'm going to personally see to it that you never hurt _anyone_ ever again."

Greg backs off, and the officers next to him are quick to cuff Harrison. The man is carried out of Greg's sight, not a moment too soon. He takes a moment to stand there, stare at where Harrison had been, and come down from his own adrenaline high through attempting slow and steady breaths.

He feels Morgan's hand slip into his. Her fingers are attempting to snake between his, their attempt futile with how tightly his hands have been curled. She rubs her thumb over the dorsal part of his hand. The movement is meant to soothe and relax, to encourage him to open up, but Morgan's touch is tacky.

Looking down, Greg sees her hand still covered in drying blood, the substance marring smooth fingertips. In a renewed panic, Greg looks up at her solemn face.

"Greg…I-"

"We should really get that looked at, Morgan," he quickly insists, gulping down the sudden emotion rising in his throat at the sight of her arm coated in crimson, _because of him._

"It's nothing, Greg. It's just a scrape," she argues.

He suddenly grabs at her arm. His touch is firm in intent, yet light in application. Slowly turning her elbow downwards to get a better look, Greg realizes the wound is still sluggishly bleeding. Drops slide down, victim to the incessant pull of gravity, leaving trailed patterns towards her wrist. With a dubious look, Greg challenges her previous statement using only his eyes.

"Would you at least let Robbins take a look at it?"

Morgan looked like she was about to protest to this option as well, until she turned her wavering eyes onto him. It was like she was searching his soul for an answer to a question Greg wasn't privy to. If she'd only ask, Greg would admit his words were a plea for Morgan to see reason. One of the things he loves most about Morgan is her stubbornness, her defiant attitude that allows her to have a strong sense of resiliency. Here is a woman who had survived a plane crash and had refused to let anyone see her cry. She's already been hurt once on his account today, she shouldn't be subjecting herself to a possible infection or excessive blood loss too.

After a moment in silent stalemate, Morgan relents with a nod. When they reach the Denali, Greg is quick to pop the trunk and instruct her to sit on the edge of the vehicle. A part of him knows his next action is futile. A field dressing at this point is nothing more than a bandage that is both makeshift and temporary. At the rate blood is seeping through, Greg also feels like it is an equivalent band-aid on a bullet wound.

He finishes repacking the emergency kit, and is quick to hop into the driver's seat. The faster he could get her to the lab, the sooner she could get stitched up. His foot aches to drive straight to the nearest emergency room, but Greg also wants to respect her wishes. In comparison to the ride to the scene, this one is tense and quiet. Every time Greg works to say something, the words – although left unsaid – are leaving a poor taste in his mouth.

Greg's mind is still reeling at the actions of Morgan, Harrison, and even himself. The last time he'd felt that angry, he'd kicked a chair at a suspect, and coincidentally both incidents were connected to Morgan. Even now, his breaths still seem forced, his muscles refusing to relax. There is nothing Greg hates more than seeing her hurt. Right now Morgan's silent as well, her eyes trained out the window as she supports her injury. The lights no longer reflect on her bright features as they did only an hour before, instead they illuminate a deep sadness written across her features.

Once again, words don't seem nearly enough to mend the situation.

He parks behind the lab, near the morgue entrance, to avoid carting her through the halls unnecessarily. Greg races out his own door the moment the vehicle slides into the parking gear, and sprints around the front of the vehicle to open the car door for her.

"Here," he says in passing, offering a hand to her.

"In case you didn't notice," Morgan snaps, moving on her own accord, "my legs are fine."

Taken aback by the sudden shift in attitude, Greg's mouth falls open soundlessly. His hand drops back to his side. He'd like to chalk up her mood swing to the events of the day, even her need to remain composed – but the sudden coldness around them feels more personal. Morgan marches through the back door and heads straight to the examination room.

Doc Robbins is sitting at one of the computers, inputting an autopsy report. The sounds of classic rock fill the room in an ironically soft way, the sounds originating from the outdated boom box that rests on the corner of the desk.

Doc spares them a quick glance at the sounds of their entry, but quickly conducts a double take at the sight of Morgan's injury. The older man stands shakily, supporting himself on his cane as he endeavors to meet her halfway in her trek towards him. "What do we have here?"

"There was an incident," Morgan states, sounding all too much like Greg on that day she spotted his scars in the locker room. He wonders wordlessly if wounds were what it meant to be in this business, to have scars. "I'm sure it is nothing serious but Greg wanted me to check with you."

"David! Can you grab me my sutures?" He yells loudly, already reaching for her arm. Turning it the same way Greg did at the scene, Doc shakes his head. "My dear, I'm afraid you are definitely going to require a few stitches."

She pushed out a tense sigh. "Great… just great."

David is quick to grab the supplies, offering each of the CSI's a quick salutation as he prepares a working station for his superior. Morgan sits on an elevated bench, swinging her legs back and forth in an almost child-like gesture. She wasn't the type of woman to broadcast signs of nervousness in noticeable ways, but if Greg cared to look, there were always small signs. Her hand on her purse when they met, the tremble of her lip in the garage that night, and her legs now.

"Now Morgan, while I'm always thankful to have a live subject over another dead one - I'm afraid we don't have much local anesthetic on hand at a morgue. You still have the option to go to the emergency room if you'd like," Doc reinforced as he finished readying himself for the procedure.

"I'm fine Doc," she insisted. "I'll try not to flinch too much, I promise."

It was futile to promise such inaction, for the touch of the antiseptic wipe causes her to suck in her next breath sharply through her teeth. Doc gives her a look to double check her consent, but she nods, straightening her back and gritting her teeth.

Doc Robbin's hands are steady as ever, his movements careful and precise. He apologizes only once at the start for her discomfort before dutifully aiming to make this process as efficient and short as possible. Greg has noticed the way Robbins cares for Morgan, almost like a daughter. The older man seems to have a soft spot for her, the same way he does for anyone who takes genuine curiosity in his work. Morgan's compassionate nature always had a way of charming everyone she met.

The needle continues to weave in and out of broken skin, and Greg becomes lost in his thoughts again. What has transpired at the casino has him replaying a tape of the events over and over, like Archie hitting replay on his hippocampus, searching to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong. He's got one arm wrapped across his torso, supporting his other arm which is directed upwards, his teeth worrying at the thumbnail as Greg watches the methodological stitch and tug of Doc's sutures.

He'd turned his back for a singular moment in the casino. Greg had operated on the assumption that Morgan was following him, that the police and himself were in charge of the situation. In order for her to have sustained this injury, Morgan would have been the one to push him out of harm's way. One hand on his back, saving him, the other taking the blow of the blade. It could only mean the knife was originally on a trajectory course to hit him squarely in the back.

"Greg."

He tore the white portion of his nail off with his teeth, the sound a clean snap in this sterile environment. She'd put herself in danger, for him. If he hadn't apprehended Harrison when he did-

"Greg!"

The sound of her voice is infuriated. Morgan hangs her head when she realizes she finally has his attention. Robbins is no longer in the room, and Greg idly wonders when the doctor had finished up. There is a white bandage around her arm again, but this time it is thicker and not soaking through.

She leans back on her hands, gripping the other edge of the table with a white-knuckle grip. Morgan's eyebrows are furrowed and her eyes are a green flame. "Are you angry with me or something?"

He's flabbergasted, and blinks owlishly. "Am I angry?...With you?"

She rolls her eyes. "When you turned around at the scene, you looked so mad when you saw me. You popped Harrison's shoulder out of its socket. You didn't respond to my touch at the casino, and you've hardly said a word to me since it happened. You aren't showing any signs of calming down. What other conclusion am I meant to come to, Greg?"

It was satirical to say the least, considering the conclusions Greg himself was coming to back at the entrance of the building. Here he was thinking Morgan had worked herself up in the last few hours, when in reality she was only responding to the indifference Greg himself had palpably been radiating.

He steps towards her, realizing her words are candid. Greg hadn't intentionally neglected her, he'd been processing an overwhelming amount of anger. "I'm not…I'm not angry with you, Morgan. Hell, you saved my life."

Stopping short of her, his eyes are unable to leave the sight of the bandage on her arm. Morgan leans downwards, angled, placing her face in his direct field of vision. "Then would you care to let me in on why you are acting like a brooding asshole when I'm the one bleeding over here?"

"Morgan," Greg begins. Admittedly, he doesn't know how to say what he feels without exposing his deepest desire. "I… I don't like seeing you hurt."

Even those words seem to have divulged too much. The anger in Morgan fades instantly as she realizes his concern for her. They are teetering on the edge of something here, the fall feels sudden as his heart prematurely picks up speed in his chest. They've made it to this edge many times, they have explored the drop-off with great caution and thoroughness. Every time they find themselves here, they sneak another toe over the edge, but they never jump. He's so tired of being stoic and hoping for a different outcome.

"Why?" Morgan asks, her voice tentative and uncertain.

For once, there is no need for bravery. His next actions are perhaps the easiest and most genuine of his entire life. Greg closes the gap existing between them, reaching his hand to the spot where Morgan's neck meets her ear. He's cupping her neck in a delicate way, as if the skin he's holding onto is more precious than any treasure. She inclines to his touch. Her eyes close momentarily as she draws comfort from the gesture.

"I think you know why," he settles on, knowing she understands. "Still, you shouldn't have been hurt on my account."

"Why do you think I pushed you, Greg? I couldn't bear to see him hurt you. I had to do whatever I could to prevent it," Morgan explains, her arm seeking out his free hand and holding onto it tightly. "Although, I know of a way you could make it up to me."

Morgan's plea comes with a smile, the result of which distracts him from the darkness of the day, in the way only she seems to be capable of doing.

"How's that?"

"You could kiss it better."

Greg can't hold the small laughter that erupts from his lips. It isn't a response to their predicament, which is anything but hilarious, but the relief he feels at their progression is overpowering. "You want me to?"

"More than anything," she reinforces, pulling him the last inch nearer via her grip on Greg's belt loop.

They crash together, Morgan's back arching to keep them steady as Greg pushes towards her. They're kissing, passionately, and Greg finds himself holding his breath. Morgan's been stealing it out of his lungs since the moment she introduced herself, leaving him breathless with her presence, so it only seems right for her to take it as her own here as well. He is happy to indulge, to give it and the rest of himself to her, without any more hesitation.

The press of their lips feverish, the hotness of his warm body meeting her own warmth. The hands that had ended up crushed between them quickly relocated, his finding her face while her own ignites goosebumps along his skin as she loops it across his shoulder. They are both using their respective vantage points to pull one another closer, to brandish any chance of escape, to lock themselves permanently in a moment as close to perfect as they come.

Most people build moments like these up in their heads, and Greg was no different. While the possibility of them making it this far had been uncertain so many times, he had allowed himself to fantasize about what it might be if Morgan desired him. He'd wondered how Morgan would truly feel in his arms, wondered how she would respond to his touch, wondered how she would kiss. Greg often wondered how it would feel to be the singular recipient of her love and undivided devotion. His expectations were shattered - his endless fantasies no match for the real thing, his script being rewritten in real time to make up for every little detail that he'd previously overlooked.

They break for air out of necessity only, and even then, they are quick to entangle their lips once more. Every moment apart suddenly feels like too long, too much of a hardship after all this time spent getting here. While this may have been the first time they were finding themselves getting acquainted in this fashion, in some ways it felt like coming home after years spent adrift, like finding where you truly belong with no need to continue searching. What Greg and Morgan were now doing was only the physical confirmation of everything they'd be dancing around since her arrival. He'd gladly spend a lifetime memorizing her, for she was all he truly wanted – today, tomorrow, and always.

* * *

**PART NINE – HEARTFELT REVELATIONS AND BRIGHT FUTURES (EPILOGUE)**

There would be trials and tribulations, beyond what the call of duty presents to them. Their newfound relationship was just beginning. It would take time to grow used to the dynamic that labeling their newfound connection brings. Russell happily presented them with the forms they needed to sign, and Greg left his signature without any hint of indecision.

Morgan had let Greg know that the offer stood, and still stood even when he mistakenly thought it was the right time to pursue her despite his own demons. He's still seeing his counsellor, still working on himself every day. What he is now certain of is that his correct partner-in-crime (for more than just the job) needs to be willing to support him as he grows to better himself. Morgan is great at listening, at giving him space, at responding to his needs as he becomes the best version of himself. Greg also does his best to be there for her in the same ways.

They are there for one another when their separate nightmares come to haunt them, for when their futures look uncertain, for every celebration and big win. That is what it truly meant to love someone, and accept love in return.

In reflection on his career and life, Greg thinks that Morgan may have been the ultimate puzzle all along. Without her, he'd been simply surviving. With her, she helps bring him so much clarity. They work in the business of death, where time is precious currency. After their kiss in the morgue, they came to the conclusion that there was no need to keep spinning themselves in webs of denials. There would always be bad times, there would always a rational reason to hold themselves back, there would always be an excuse to keep them from losing themselves in one another. Greg's tired of disagreeing with himself, lying to himself about the type of man he is and what he can provide.

Their blossoming relationship means he can finally file the mystery of 'what they could be' away. He's not left feeling as if he missed any critical details, or potential other leads. When Morgan's looking at him the way she does, Greg knows what it means to be loved. He knows what it means to reciprocate her passion, to hold love within the confines of his heart – a love that is as real and filled with meaning as any great love story ever put to paper with ink. He's certain that he has all his facts straight, and could defend his love against any authority who dares to prove him otherwise. There wouldn't be another, no need for a second glance to confirm what they already know.

As long as they felt the way they do right now, this one could remain _cased closed_.


End file.
